


If You Hear Any Noise (It's Just Me and the Boys)

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alligators & Crocodiles, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Music, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bestiality, Category 5 Sex Hurricane Fest, Crack, Dark Funk Prince, Explicit Language, Funk Music, Hurricanes & Typhoons, M/M, Musician Sherlock, New Orleans, Parliament-Funkadelic, Rimming, TW: Hurricane in New Orleans, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-03 19:15:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4111980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is the Dark Funk Prince on tour with George Clinton. He, George, and the whole Parliament-Funkadelic crew are headed to New Orleans for a gig at the legendary House of Funk.</p><p>But, unbeknownst to the mortal world, one god of Funk is much displeased with the Prince, his funkitude, and his propensity for topping every roadie in sight, and as a result, that itty-bitty storm in the Gulf of Mexico is about to become…you guessed it…a category 5 hurricane.</p><p>Trigger warning for hurricanes in New Orleans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Category_5_Sex_Hurricane_Fest_2015](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Category_5_Sex_Hurricane_Fest_2015) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  Sherlock is the Dark Funk Prince. He does a tour with George Clinton. Women throw their panties on stage. He gives them all to George and spends all night topping the roadies.

“May the Funk be with you.”

“A-a-and also with you, Dark Funk Prince.”

Sherlock pulled his cock out and watched the come leak down a pale, trembling thigh. He dragged a fingertip through the trickling mess and licked it clean. He made an appraising noise.

“Premium…first-class…grade A…Funk spunk.”

He reached a hand overhead and grasped the loop of leather attached to the ceiling. The bus lurched right. Suddenly, there was a heap of underwear, trousers, skin, and beard on the floor in the middle of the U-shaped bank of cushions. The bus lurched left.

Sherlock swayed back and forth and addressed the heap.

“Now, see here, tonight is special. For the first time, I, the Dark Funk Prince, and the father of Funk himself will be performing together at the House of Funk. I am to be _resplendently_ funky. I am to be…”

He paused.

“…the Dark Electric Flamingo with his Flaming Funk-o-lin!”

An arm extended from the heap, proffering a damp washcloth. Sherlock took the cloth and wiped his cock as he spoke.

“And as such, I need a full headdress, cape with five-foot train, and loincloth made entirely of black flamingo feathers. _Flamingo_. Emu or ostrich will not do. And no mohair! I do not want a repeat of Baton Rouge!”

“Yes, your Highness. T-t-thank you for being so understanding about…”

The door slid open.

“Anderson! What are you doing here?!”

John stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand, pen behind his ear. Anderson scrambled to his feet, pulling up his trousers.

“You’re supposed to be with Donovan, brushing wigs for tonight. Off you go.”

“Flamingo! I _will_ know the difference!” called Sherlock; then he threw the washcloth on the floor and flopped down on the center cushion. The sides of his dressing gown fell apart, porcelain skin and flaccid cock on full display.

“Sherlock! Topping him _again_? That’s the third time today!”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s so easy. Not like you, John.”

Sherlock lunged. John dodged the attack, using Sherlock’s weight and momentum to flip him onto his back on the side bank of cushions.

“How come I’ve never heard your,” Sherlock eyed John’s crotch, “ _clarinet_ , John?”

“Being your manager, that is, keeping you financially solvent, artistically inspired, legally protected, and,” John grimaced as he picked up the washcloth by the tiniest edge and dropped it in a bin, “perennially lubricated is a full-time job. Plus, school clarinet isn’t funk.” He took the pen from behind his ear and tapped the clipboard. “Now if you can take a minute from topping every roadie in sight, I want to go over the list for tonight’s show. I’ve managed to find most of what you wanted.”

“Most?” Sherlock frowned. He sat up and reached for his violin. He plucked the strings idly as John spoke.

“One extra-large claw-foot bathtub. Check.”

“Good.”

“One whaling harpoon. Check.”

“Seven-foot?”

“Yes, but I got a transparent cap for the tip. No accidentally skewering anyone in the audience or bandmates. I don’t want a repeat of Lake Charles. Okay?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. His expression was pained, but he nodded.

“Live alligator. No.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “No?!”

“No. Absolutely not. City of New Orleans ordinance. No ferocious animals.”

“Ferocious?!”

“Yes, Sherlock, ferocious meaning ‘capable of threatening the safety of a living being or given to extreme fierceness, unrestrained violence or brutality.’ An alligator qualifies on all counts.”

“How am I to be the Dark Electric Flamingo without an alligator, John?! What will George Clinton and Bootsy Collins and the rest of the P-Funk All Stars think if I don’t deliver a truly funktastic performance in sound _and_ visual. Do you care at all about showmanship?! DO YOU?!”

Sherlock threw the violin aside and curled into a ball, face-first against the cushions.

John sighed.

“How about an inflatable alligator? You know, like one of those beach balls they toss in crowds. Lots of fun. Plus, the audience—and the band—will be so high that they might actually see it walking and talking and doing God knows what else. I found a pair of, uh, conjugal versions if you’re interested.”

“This is not a beach jamboree, John! I am not king of the Parrotheads! I am the Dark Funk Prince, performing at the legendary House of Funk, with the father of Funk. I want an alligator. Get me an alligator.” Sherlock uncurled and moved to the window. He pushed one slat of the blinds down. “This picturesque bayou over which we are currently traversing is full of alligators. Go. Get me one.”

John’s face flushed. “Right, Sherlock, I’m going to stop the whole caravan on the side of I-10, hop out, and wrestle you a killer reptile.”

“If you had ever had a taste of premium, first class, grade A Funk spunk, _you would at least try!_ ”

Sherlock flopped back onto the cushion. He looked up at John with a pout and held out his hand.

John huffed and retrieved a bottle of lube from his back pocket. He squeezed some into Sherlock’s palm, and Sherlock began to stroke his limp cock, coating it with the slick.

“No, Sherlock. No alligator. No live animals at all. I do not want a repeat of Galveston.”

There was a soft snuffling. John’s head whipped around to the corner where a black-and-white pig was dozing.

“What is _he_ doing here?!”

“Officer Dibbles stopped by to say ‘hello’ and nap. He likes my bus better than George’s.”

“Sherlock, did you…?”

“That was _one time_ , John. I apologized to Mr. Clinton. And to the Officer here. And, to be fair, with the squeals of ecstasy, I thought I was topping Anderson. Simple mistake.”

John waged a battle of stares with Sherlock and lost. He flipped a page on the clipboard.

“Oh, the House of Funk wants to name a cocktail after you. So, maybe before the show we can take some promo photos at the bar. It’ll be served in a hurricane glass…”

“…shaped like my erect cock.”

“What? No, Sherlock!”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes!”

“No. And, just so you know, the drink, it’s called the Purple Shirt of Sex, after your debut album, of course. It’s dark rum, light rum, crème de cassis…”

Sherlock looked down at his cock, which had grown half-hard. “With a secret ingredient, they can charge $500 a glass.”

“No, wait. No! That’s…”

“…brilliant!” cried Sherlock. “I am a musical _and_ a marketing genius! Think it through—“

Sherlock’s words were interrupted by loud shrieks. John glanced at the corner, but Officer Dibbles was still sleeping. He peered out the crack of the bent blind; a yellow and pink bus with large-eyed cats painted on the side passed by. “The Mollys are here,” he said.

“Naturally. _I’m_ here. My fans are here.”

“Good news for the panty retailers of New Orleans.” John smoothed the blinds. “You know, the Mollys don’t seem to mind that after they toss them on stage, you just give them to George.”

“Devotion is its own reward, John. Speaking of which,” Sherlock said, gesturing to his cock. “Don’t you want to service your _liege_?”

“No, I’d rather make sure my _employer_ and his violin—“

“Funk-o-lin,” corrected Sherlock. John rolled his eyes.

“—get to rehearsal on time, which is at four.”

Sherlock huffed and pulled the dressing gown tightly around himself.

John continued. “Also, the forecast for tonight is showers with possible thunderstorms, so if you could talk to your brother…”

Sherlock’s gaze turned from petulant to cold; he tied the sash at his waist with angry jerks.

“Sherlock, a little celestial protection from the elements will go a long way in making sure your flamingo doesn’t moult!”

Sherlock grunted noncommittally.

John tucked the clipboard under his arm and put the pen behind his ear. “Alright, I’m still working on the rest of the list. See you at four.” He turned sharply and bumped into a broad chest with SECURITY stencilled across it in white letters.

“Oh, sorry, Seb.”

“John.” They nodded at each other.

“Yes?” asked Sherlock.

“I got it,” said Seb. He set a black case on the cushion.

Sherlock clapped his hands together and rubbed them excitedly. “Well done!”

John hurried back down the aisle. “What? What is that?”

“Tranquilizer gun,” said Seb, with a smile.

“Tranquilizer gun?!” John’s face turned from pink to red. “WHAT— _IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY_ —FOR?”

Seb and Sherlock stared at John. They replied in unison:

“For the alligator.”

John banged the clipboard against his forehead. “I quit!” he groaned and stormed off.

Seb raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock gave a dismissive wave. “He quits a dozen times a day. Excellent work. Close the door.”

Seb slid the door shut.

Sherlock raked his eyes down Seb’s back. He licked his lips at the broad shoulders, tight T-shirt, and even tighter jeans. His cock twitched. “Your shirt’s on backwards,” he observed.

Seb turned and grinned. “Guess I better take it off then.” He fisted the fabric at his chest and ripped it off with one yank.

* * *

“Magnificent,” moaned Seb into the cushion. “Like being filled with hot lava. Like a volcano erupting. Twice.”

Sherlock threw his arms in the air triumphantly and roared.

“Refractory period: 3 minutes, 48 seconds! _I AM A GOD!_ ”

* * *

“Did you hear him? Did you hear what he said? He said he was a god! Are we going to let that stand?!”

High on Mount Funkalympus, some gods were playing cards, some checkers. Some were lounging by the pool, strumming guitars or tapping out rhythms with drumsticks.

None of them looked up at the outburst.

None, except one.

“He _is_ a god, well, half-god, technically.”

“Of course, you would defend your brother.”

“Half-brother,” said Mycroft. “Papa was a rolling stone, as they say. And you’re just sore because he’s topping your mortal plaything.”

“He’s not my plaything,” said Moriarty defensively. “I just admire his…”

They looked down through the clouds. Seb was on his back, body almost bent in half as Sherlock thrust in time to the rocking of the bus.

Mycroft smirked. “Strength? Stamina? Flexibility?”

Moriarty grit his teeth. “He’s gone too far this time, this so-called Dark Funk Prince. I am the god of Mayhem! I am going to teach him a lesson. And you,” he pointed to Mycroft, “are not going to stop me!”

Mycroft’s icy stare belied his unassuming tone. “Me? You think I can stop you? I occupy a minor position in the Funk pantheon. As the god of Bespoke and Umbrellas, what can I do? My previous efforts to curb his tendencies have all failed.”

Moriarty and Mycroft both glanced towards the dark-haired goddess stretched out on a lounge chair.

“Don’t look at me, boys,” said Irene, flipping a page of magazine. “I can lead him to a bus full of Mollys, but I can’t make him keep their panties.”

Mycroft turned back to Moriarty. “I am willing to make amends for my brother’s _misguided exuberance_. How about a new suit? Westwood? A navy check and stripe Henry, perhaps?”

Moriarty considered. “Okay. For now.” 


	2. Chapter 2

“Wow! Wow, wow, wow!”

John stood with his mouth open. On one side of him was a gigantic Egyptian pyramid and on the other was an equally gigantic spaceship—with a pair of legs sticking out of the bottom of the hull.

“ _This_ is why you’re the best in the business, Greg,” said John to the legs. “These are the bomb!”

“Thanks! I’m pretty proud of them myself!” Greg rolled out from under the ship. “The crew and I have been working non-stop since dawn putting it all together for tonight. I know that Mr. Clinton is a big fan of Star Trek, so this Mothership,” he tapped the side with his wrench, “is based on Spock and Kirk’s old Enterprise. With a little Millennium Falcon thrown in.”

“How will it go?”

“Mr. Clinton, Mr. Collins, and the rest of the All Stars will be inside the pyramid. The Dark Funk Prince will navigate the spaceship from the back of the house, over the audience, and then crash into the pyramid. The top of the pyramid explodes, and they all spill out for the opening number.”

“Very funk,” said John.

Greg stood up and wobbled.

“Hey, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” mumbled Greg, holding his head.

“You want to take a break and get some lunch? You’ve got to be hungry. And exhausted.”

“Nah, there’s still so much to do.”

“I know the feeling, but let me know if you want me to send out for something. I can send Anderson.”

“Uh, no, thanks. Oh, and John?”

“Yeah?”

“Is his Highness allergic to fibreglass?”

“I don’t think so, but then I didn’t know about the goat hair until Baton Rouge. Why?”

“The pool’s fibreglass.”

John flipped several pages on the clipboard. “What-what pool? I didn’t…”

“For the alligator.”

John went from pale to purple. “THERE WILL BE NO ALLIGATOR!”

The walkie-talkie on John’s hip crackled.

“Copper2 to Hedgehog. Copper2 to Hedgehog. Come in, Hedgehog.”

John clicked a button and put the device to his mouth. “What is it, Donovan?”

“There’s a guy here named Dimmock. Wants to take a cast of the Dark Funk Prince’s cock. Says he’s from a glassware company. Know anything about this?”

“Oh, fuck,” groaned John. “The Purple Shirt of Sex. Okay, tell him to wait. On my way. I’m coming!”

“No, his Highness is coming. In the guy’s ass. Right now. Guess he’s getting the measurements the old fashioned way.”

John stared at the walkie-talkie; the vein at his temple throbbed. Greg stifled a laugh.

John said quickly, “Gotta go. But, as I said before, there will be no alligator. Great job. See you later.”

As John hurried away, Greg wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Well, that’s a relief,” he said under his breath. “I really didn’t want a repeat of San Antonio.”

* * *

The interior of the spaceship was dark. Greg plopped down in a large swivel chair. He leaned forward and ran his fingers over the flashing lights of the control panel. He whispered to himself, “This vessel is one wire short of being an actual UFO. Not bad, Lestrade.”

“Not bad at all.”

Greg jumped. “Your Highness!”

Sherlock emerged from the back of the ship. “Very nice,” he said in a low, velvety voice. He wore a black jumpsuit with wide lapels and a V that plunged to the waist.

“Thank you,” said Greg. He rose and gestured for Sherlock to sit down. “Would you like a demonstration?”

“Later. First, I think this level of craftsmanship deserves a reward.” With a magician’s flourish, Sherlock produced a wax paper-wrapped bundle and offered it to Greg. “You’ve been working so hard.”

Greg stared. He unwrapped it, and the air filled with the scent of olives, cheese, and cold meat.

“Muffuletta! Oh my god! I love these.” He attacked the sandwich. “Like manna from heaven!” he said with his mouth full.

“Not quite,” said Sherlock. “But close. Why don’t you sit here,” Sherlock sat down in the chair and patted his lap, “and enjoy your reward while I enjoy mine. A man who appreciates ten inches of meat is, well, my kind of man.”

Greg stopped chewing. He swallowed and then smiled. He spread the wax paper over the control panel and leaned forward, grasping the sandwich with two hands.

Sherlock reached around Greg’s waist and unbuckled his belt. He untucked Greg’s shirt and slid his hands inside.

“Oh my god, this is good,” mumbled Greg between bites.

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Sherlock as his hands roamed over Greg’s chest and back. He pushed Greg’s trousers and shorts down. Then he bent his head and sank his teeth into a round buttock.

Greg groaned. Bits of meat and cheese pinged on the wax paper.

Sherlock reached around to fondle Greg’s balls. Then he gently ran a hand up the shaft, which was hard and leaking. “Looks like this rocket’s already ready to blast off,” he said. “So’s mine.”

Sherlock pulled the long zipper down on his jumpsuit and freed his erection. Then he blew on his palm and, magically, there appeared a thin bottle of olive oil.

Sherlock held the bottle out. “Dressing?”

Greg shook his head. “S’perfect the way it is.”

“Wonderful,” said Sherlock. “More for me.”

Sherlock filled his cupped palm with oil. Then he took turns, stroking his own cock and balls and Greg’s. Greg swallowed loudly and then began to chant,

“Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!”

Sherlock felt Greg’s body tense, and he stopped his ministrations abruptly, eliciting a plaintive whine from Greg.

“Eat,” ordered Sherlock. Greg took an enormous bite and chewed.

Sherlock dribbled the oil onto his finger and began to tease Greg’s hole. He slipped a finger inside.

“So tight. So amazingly, amazingly tight. This demands a taste.”

Sherlock dropped the bottle on the floor and grabbed Greg’s buttocks with two hands and pushed.

Greg’s ass went up. Sherlock’s head went down.

As Greg pitched forward onto the control panel, he sputtered and coughed.

“Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!”

Sherlock pressed his face into Greg’s crack and lapped greedily at his rim.

“Delicious,” said Sherlock as he drew back. He covered his entire hand with oil. One stroke to his own cock, one stroke to Greg’s, and then he quickly teased Greg’s rim. He inserted one finger, then two, then three in rapid succession.

Finally, Sherlock sank his cock into Greg, who threw his head back. The lower half of his face was covered with remnants of sandwich and his own saliva. Sherlock reached around again and gripped the base of Greg’s cock hard.

“You are a god!” cried Greg.

“Almost,” panted Sherlock as he thrust and stroked.

They came with one loud moan that echoed through the cabin.

Greg was still breathing hard when he turned around. “Y-y-your Highness, that was, that was…”

Sherlock held up a frosty amber bottle.

“Round one.”

* * *

“Mycroft! You look positively bilious.” Moriarty peered over Mycroft’s shoulder. “What was the phrase you used? ‘Mortal playthings,’ I think it was.”

“Gregory is nothing like your hooligan. He is a noble, upstanding artisan. Intelligent. Creative. Skilled.”

“He looks pretty skilled at taking your brother’s cock, that’s for sure.”

“ _Half_ -brother,” said Mycroft bitterly. “Sherlock is taking shameless advantage. If Gregory wasn’t so worn down by hunger and fatigue, he would never be tempted by such ludicrous vulgarity.”

“Seduced by salami. Tragic.”

“It wasn’t even _cake_ ,” murmured Mycroft disappointedly.

“So?”

Mycroft scowled and gave him a side glance. “Teach him a lesson.”

Moriarty cackled.

* * *

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“Nobody in here!” yelled Sherlock.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“Can’t you read?!”

“News flash, proper genius, when you’re hiding from me, might not be a good idea to stick a Post-It with ‘Do not disturb the fucking! This means you, John!’ on the side of a flying saucer. Greg needs to get back to work, and you have rehearsal in ten minutes, so wrap it up!”

Sherlock whispered in Greg’s ear. “Ten minutes is an eternity. Why there’s even time for a cuddle!”

Greg groaned.

"Oh my god."

* * *

“Think we’re too old to funk, George?”

“Nah, Bootsy. We ain’t too old to funk.”

They sat side-by-side watching the rehearsal.

George nodded towards Sherlock. “In San Antonio, he let a boa constrictor loose on my bus. In Galveston, he fucked my pig. In Lake Charles, he almost took my eye out with those…what do you call them?”

“Throwing knives?”

George nodded. “Yeah, throwing knives. In Baton Rouge, we all got fleas from that goddamn goat coat.”

“I’m still itching,” said Bootsy, scratching his arm.

“And in Houston…”

“I don’t even want to think about Houston, George.”

“Me neither, Bootsy. My point is we ain’t too old to funk; we just might be a bit too old to funk with _that_ motherfucker!”

“You gonna talk to John about it?”

“Tomorrow,” said George. “Tonight, we’re gonna put on a show like no one’s ever seen! One for the ages, Bootsy! Because crazy or not, he can _funk_! And so can we.”

“You know that’s right.”


	3. Chapter 3

“He’s extraordinary. He always has been,” said John, beaming.

“Yeah,” agreed Seb and Greg, their eyes momentarily glazed.

The three stood side-by-side with arms crossed, looking over the crowd at the stage. Outside the wind howled, and the scaffolding vibrated beneath their feet.

“Opening number went off without a hitch,” said Greg with pride.

“What’s the finale?” asked Seb.

“After the encores, everybody gets in the Mothership and blasts off. There’ll be some pyrotechnics, and then the ship disappears. Actually, the roof has some retractable panels.”

“What about the rain?” asked John. “That’s quite the storm out there.”

“Waterproof,” said Greg. “And since we’ve got these industrial-strength umbrellas, everybody should be okay. There may be a little damage, but nothing we can’t repair before Mobile.”

The crowd roared.

Sherlock had thrown off his cape; he was naked save for a dark piece of plumage covering his crotch.

“Here they go,” said John.

Undergarments of every shape and size flew onto the stage.

Sherlock continued dancing. He bobbed his feathered head. He splashed in the ankle-deep pool. He gyrated around the harpoon, which rose out of the water like a flagpole. He leapt over a pair of inflatable alligators locked together in coital bliss.

“See, inflatable was just fine,” said John. “No need for…”

Seb and Greg both took a small step backwards and looked at each other.

“You tell him,” mouthed Greg silently.

“No, you!”

“I’m not going to tell him!”

“ _I’m_ not going to tell him!”

Sherlock stepped into the claw-foot tub with violin in hand. He drew the bow across the strings, and the instrument alit with flames.

The crowd roared anew.

John’s walkie-talkie buzzed.

“Copper2 to Hedgehog!”

“Donovan, can’t it wait? Sherlock’s about to do his solo.”

“No, it can’t, John. Listen—“

“I know what you’re going to say, and I agree. The costume is phenomenal. I don’t know how you found those feathers on such short notice or how you engineered the headdress, but it’s spectacular.”

“Thanks. Yeah, but John—“

“Okay, this is long overdue. After tonight,” John took a deep breath, “you are going to be head of wardrobe, and Anderson, well, we’re going to have to find something else for him to do. Maybe, put him in charge of catering—“

John was hit from both sides. He looked at Seb and Greg who were shaking their heads violently. Greg whispered, “Remember Houston?!”

“—okay,” said John quickly, “maybe not anything related to food, something else. The point is, you do great work and it’s high time you were recognized and compensated for it.”

“Great, but John, will you listen?!”

“What?!”

“The storm.”

“Yeah, it’s bad.”

“It’s going to get worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“The National Weather Service has just upgraded it, from a thunderstorm to a category 5 hurricane!”

John froze. He looked blankly at Seb and Greg, who returned his stare.

Sally continued. “And based on the maps, it’s headed right down Canal Street, right for us. If the levees break again, we’ll be completely under water.”

“How long ‘til landfall?”

“Twenty minutes, maybe.”

The three gasped.

“Okay, okay, okay,” said John. “Don’t panic. Nobody panic. Sally, get the buses; Greg, get the crew; Seb, get the band. I’ll handle the crowd.”

Seb pointed to the stage. “How am I supposed to get them in a bus? They’re high as kites—on the funk and everything else. It’s going to be like herding cats! Cats on acid!”

“Figure it out,” said John. “We’ve got to get everyone to safety. Go! Now!”

Greg and Seb hurried down the ladder. When they reached the floor, Seb headed toward a side exit.

“Hey!” called Greg. “Where are you going? You’re in charge of the band. Herding cats, remember?”

“Fuck the cats! I’m in charge of the alligator!” He disappeared out the door.

* * *

Above them, John closed his eyes.

“I don’t know if there’s a god of Funk listening, but if there is, we could sure use some help right now.”

* * *

“You, motherfucker, are in some deep shit!”

Moriarty gulped. A dozen gods encircled him. Their faces formed a wall of angry invectives.

“You gonna destroy a whole damn town just because you got your horn blown by some crazy-assed funkster?!”

“Get George and Bootsy and the rest of the band out of there! You ain’t got no beef with them!”

“Bastard! I’m taking care of the Mollys myself. Let’s go, Kate.”

“You’re gonna be demoted to the god of Cosmic Slop & Maggot Brains if you don’t fix this. Right. Now.”

Moriarty held up his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. I’m on it.”

He backed away from the group and turned. Then he spied Mycroft and grabbed him by the lapels.

“ _You_ are going to help!”

Mycroft shoved him back. “Careful. Brioni.” He brushed the front of his jacket. “It’s a hurricane. I’ve got umbrellas.”

Moriarty tugged at his collar. “It’s ah, ah little bit more than a hurricane. Just a bit.”

* * *

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

Seb kicked the empty cage until the metal bars bent.

Then he grabbed the black case and rushed out into the rain.

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey! Where have you been? I told you to—“

Seb tossed the black case at John’s chest. “I’m outta here. Good luck, man.”

“What? There’s a _hurricane_. You need to help—“

“I’m not helping anybody. It’s every man for himself.” He grabbed an umbrella off the bar. “Oh, and the alligator’s loose.”

John watched him go. “Alligator,” he breathed. Then his knees buckled, and he slid down the side of the bar into the pooling water.

* * *

“John! Snap out of it, man!”

Greg shook John and jerked him to his feet.

John blinked. “Alligator,” he said in a dazed voice.

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. His Highness…”

John shook his head slowly. “The alligator’s loose.”

“What? Oh my god!” Greg covered his mouth and looked around. He rubbed the back of his head and said, “You know what? There’s so much water; I bet that alligator’s long gone. But,” he took the black case from John, removed the tranquilizer gun, and loaded it with a feather dart, “keep this, just in case.” He pushed the strap of the gun onto John’s shoulder and tossed the case behind the bar. “Right now we’ve got bigger problems than an alligator headed for Lake Pontchartrain. The band’s still playing. His Highness is still playing. With the electricity and the water, they’re going be sitting on Gruesome Gertie very soon if we don’t stop the show. This place is going to burst any minute, and we’re going to be swimming for our lives. Sally’s got the buses ready. C’mon!”

“You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“No worries, mate.” Greg thumped him on the back. “I’m going to do a final sweep of backstage.”

“I’ll handle the front. And Sherlock.”

* * *

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his brow furrowed. He had a look of supreme—nay, _divine_ —concentration as he wrought monstrous funk from his instrument. Band members swirled around him.

“Hey, George, the boy’s on fire tonight!”

“I’ve said it before, Bootsy, he can _funk_.”

“George?”

“Yeah?”

“Is it just me or is the roof, uh, _breathing_?”

“I’ve seen roofs do all kinds of things, Bootsy, but,” he looked up, “I don’t think it’s breathing exactly…more like…”

“Uh-oh, pool’s sprung a leak. That’s not good.”

“Bootsy, pool ain’t sprung no leak. That water’s coming from somewhere else.”

“Something’s wrong, George. There’s John. Looking like he’s having a heart attack. He’s waving at us. What’s he saying?”

George lowered his sunglasses. “I can’t tell, Bootsy. Hur…ri…cane? Hurricane! OH-no!”

“Shit! What are we gonna do, George? Mother Nature’s gone Katrina on our ass!”

“Don’t worry, Bootsy. We gonna Noah’s Ark it, funkadelic-style.”

“What?”

The microphone made a long high-pitched squeak. Then George’s voice rung out,

“EVERYBODY IN THE MOTHERSHIP!”

All the band members stopped and turned. George waved to the rear of the stage.

“NOW! IN THE SHIP!”

George and Bootsy scrambled up the steps into the flying saucer. The band members stared at each other. Water sloshed around their feet. The ceiling throbbed. With one strong pulse, a mosaic of cracks appeared overhead, and rain showered down on the entire house. The band members hastily dropped their instruments and ran to the Mothership as sparks flew from amplifiers.

Oblivious to the commotion, Sherlock played on.

* * *

Irene pointed to the stage where the band members were scurrying into the spaceship.

“Look! The show’s over, ladies! To the bus! Now!”

“No!” they cried. “We won’t leave our Prince!”

Kate popped an umbrella. She raised it over herself and Irene just as the dribbles of rain turned to sheets. Most of the audience took their cues from the band and scattered to the exits. Only a small, tightly-packed group remained. Water gushed in from all sides, rising ankle-high.

“There’s a hurricane, ladies! It’s time to go!” said Kate.

“We won’t leave our Prince!”

Irene groaned. “I love them, but sometimes fans are so…”

“Intractable? Intransigent? Stubborn?” suggested Kate.

“…stupid. Do what you have to do. I’m going to find…”

“Your mortal plaything?”

Kate smirked as Irene took the umbrella and headed towards the side of the stage.

* * *

The band members crowded around the door of the Mothership, yelling at Sherlock, who was now the lone performer on stage. He was doubled over, bow under his arm, plucking the violin strings in a syncopated beat. His eyes were still pinched shut.

“Come on, man!”

“We gotta go!”

“He don’t even hear us, George! It’s like he’s in another dimension!” cried Bootsy.

“He’d better come on,” said George, tapping buttons on the control panel. “I’m firing this baby up. We’re going tear the roof off the sucker for real. Heh, heh.”

* * *

“Okay, ladies. To the bus! I have Purple Shirts of Sex for everyone!” Kate held up an arm, and with a flick of the wrist, a phallic-shaped flute appeared in her hand.

“OH!” they gasped. They looked at each other.

“A moment,” said one. They huddled in a circle, twittering. When the confab broke, they cried in unison:

“No! We won’t leave our Prince!”

Sherlock shook from side-to-side, and his headdress fell. One of the Mollys threw herself on the stage and snatched the feathered mass. She held it aloft triumphantly to the cheers of her companions. Then she returned to the tiny throng.

“ARGH!” shouted Kate. “You leave me no choice! You didn’t want the carrot. Let’s see how you like the stick!” She clapped her hands.

Behind her, the alligator surged out of the water and snapped its craggy jaws.

* * *

“Where are you, you bastard?”

Greg hurried back and forth down the corridor, opening doors and closing them.

Sally rushed towards him. “The crew’s on board. Let’s go!”

“I can’t find him,” said Greg. They locked eyes, then Sally pushed past him and opened a door.

A small voice whined from a mound of silk, sequins, and feathers.

“I-I-I hate storms!”

Sally gave Greg a knowing stare. Greg opened his mouth and then shut it as ear-piercing shrieks and riotous splashing sounded from the main hall.

“Oh my god! What was that?! Okay, get him to the buses and go. Just go. And thanks. For everything,” said Greg, and he left her.

Sally looked at the mound. “Let’s go, Anderson.”

“I-I-I can’t…”

Sally reached in and found an arm; then she hoisted the whole bundle across her shoulder and turned.

A dark-haired woman stood in the hallway, smiling.

“Who are you?!” barked Sally.

“A fan.”

“A fan of the Dark Funk Prince? The Molly bus is out front. And there’s a hurricane so you’d better…”

“No, a fan of yours, Sally Donovan.”

“Me?”

The bundle on Sally’s shoulder yipped. She slapped it.

“How would you like to be star of your own show? I think it’s time, don’t you?” purred the woman.

“Lady, as…interesting…as you are, we need to get out of here.”

“You take this,” said the woman, offering her umbrella. “And I’ll take this.” She reached for the bundle on Sally's shoulder. “And we’ll talk.” The woman gestured up the corridor. “After you, my dear.”

Sally smiled and said, “Thanks.”

* * *

The band members shouted, “ALLIGATOR!”

“Get in, Bootsy! Buckle up, everybody!”

“The boy’s still out there, George!”

“I ain’t survived seventy-three years of funking just to get eaten by some lizard! That boy’s on his own!"

"Maybe the gods of Funk have mercy of his soul!” said Bootsy as the door slowly closed.


	5. Chapter 5

“John?! What?!”

“The alligator!”

Greg and John were caught up in a stampede of shrieking Mollys.

“Good luck, boys,” said Kate as she followed her charges out the door.

Greg and John looked at the stage. They both paled.

“Sherlock,” said John. “I can't believe it. He doesn’t even know what’s happening.”

“Oh my god!” cried Greg. The lights on the spaceship flashed, and smoke billowed from the base, creating hissing clouds of steam as it hit the floodwaters and rain. “Someone’s trying to fly that thing. It’s not going to make it. It’ll hit the ceiling and explode. I’ve got to open the roof.”

Greg sped to the side of the hall. As he reached a large panel mounted on the wall, a cascade of rain fell. The panel sparked. Greg frantically pushed buttons and pulled levers, to no avail. He screamed in frustration as the hulking craft rumbled and shook on its platform.

“Greg?!” called John.

“Not working! Fuck! There’s a manual control.”

“Where?”

“Up!”

Greg flew up the ladder and raced across the scaffold. He gripped the rusty crank and began to turn. Slowly, a gap in the roof opened. With a deafening roar, the spaceship lifted off the ground. More wind and rain rushed in as it cleared the roof and disappeared into the storm.

* * *

“Here we come, Star Child! We gonna be higher than we’ve ever been before, Bootsy!”

Bootsy clutched the seat and grinned. “Partyin’ on the Mothership, George!”

* * *

A fierce gust knocked Greg back against the railing.

There was a cry from below.

“JUMP!”

The scaffolding shook and swayed. And then collapsed.

* * *

John felt the wind and rain on his face and breathed in the noxious cloud left in escaping craft's wake.

“Anarchy, invisible lurking enemy and now a man down,” he mused. “It’s the battlefield all over again. Focus, focus, soldier. Sherlock. Get to Sherlock. Get to that arrogant, selfish, ridiculous bastard who _still_ has no clue that he’s in the middle of a warzone.”

John readied the tranquilizer gun and waded further into the water, pushing aside unmoored seats, broken scaffolding, and other floating debris.

“On the bright side, things can’t get any worse.”

Then the lights went out.

* * *

_Flick! Flick!_

“Fuck!”

The wind ripped the cigarette from Seb’s hand. He was huddled in a streetcar abandoned on the neutral ground between two once-busy thoroughfares. Now, houses and shops were boarded shut; sidewalks and corners, empty.

It was a ghost town, shrouded in rain, with Seb seemingly the lone survivor.

“What’s next, Sebbie?” he asked himself. “How we gonna get out of this one?”

He looked up and saw a figure on the tracks approaching.

“Maybe it’s Marie Laveau. Maybe it’s the devil himself. I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to either one. I could use a little voodoo right now.”

The figure neared. He walked slowly, with his hands in his pockets, whistling.

“Crazy motherfucker!” Seb muttered. “Hey, man, you'd better get in here!” he called. “You’re ruining that nice suit!”

The man shook his head at the umbrella that Seb offered. “I’m not allowed to have those.” He gave a sheepish shrug.

Seb squinted. He could see that despite the torrential rain the stranger’s clothing was dry.

Dry and impeccable.

The man stopped in front of Seb. He looked down at his shoe. He bit his lip and drew a pattern on the ground with his foot. Then he looked up at Seb with shy smile.

“Would you like to get a cup of coffee?” He turned his head to the side. “The Waffle House’s open.”

“Uh, podjo, I hate to break it to you, but there’s a hurricane on.”

The man winced. “Oh yeah. _That_.” He snapped his fingers.

The rain stopped.

“How ‘bout now?” The corners of his mouth turned down in a mock-frown, but his green eyes were wide and lit with amusement.

Seb blinked. Then he chuckled. “You got a name, Handsome?”

“Chaos.”

“Nice to meet you, Chaos,” Seb said, ripping off his sodden jacket. “I’m,” he pointed to his front of his shirt, “SECURITY.”

* * *

Greg gazed at the shadowy hole in the ceiling. He gave a bittersweet sigh.

“My best work just flew through the roof.”

As the scaffolding fell, he had launched himself at one of the ceiling beams, and now he lay lengthwise, clinging to it with wrapped arms and legs like a tree-dwelling animal on a limb. He was thoroughly soaked. The pelting rain kept on, dripping through the ever-widening cracks above him. He strained his eyes, trying to spot John or Sherlock, but the world below him was blanketed in darkness.

“I guess this is it.” He rested his head on the beam and closed his eyes.

All at once, the rain stopped.

Greg lifted his head.

The storm clouds parted to reveal a brilliant moon, shining down through the gap in the roof, casting a silvery iridescence over all below.

Greg looked down.

He saw Sherlock.

He saw John.

He saw the alligator.

He screamed.

* * *

“Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock,” John panted.

The darkness was complete.

He was blind.

But not lost.

He heard the tiny sounds of Sherlock’s violin not-quite swallowed by the cacophony of the storm, and he followed them.

He was near, very near, but then he heard another sound, a menacing swish of water.

_FLASH!_

Moonlight hit John’s eyes, and he stumbled.

There was a scream from above.

And as the alligator lunged, John’s lips, too, formed a silent scream.

“ _SHERLOCK!_ ”

He took aim and fired.

* * *

Greg watched the scene play out. Then he sighed. “Oh, thank god.”

“You’re welcome.”

Greg blinked.

A man hovered in the air just out of Greg’s reach.

“Oh my god!”

“Ye-e-es, actually.”

“Who are _you_?!” asked Greg, taking in the man’s dark suit and umbrella. “Some kind of Beau-Brummel-Mary-Poppins fairy godfather?!”

“Not a wholly inaccurate characterization,” the man admitted. He tilted his head and blurted, “Would you care to partake of a light repast? With me, that is?”

“If that means food, yeah, sure, but I’m in a bit…” Greg looked around him. “...of a precarious position here…”

The man went on. “I’m given to understand that you prefer your hashed brown potatoes spread on a grill and served with onions and cheese.”

A nervous laugh escaped Greg’s lips. “Okay, let’s just go with it, Lestrade, not as if the day can get any weirder. Uh, yeah, I like ‘em scattered and smothered and covered. Usually with…”

“Slices of a fried, semi-congealed loaf made from boiled pig offal, cornmeal, and seasonings.”

“...scrapple. When you put it like that, it doesn’t really sound so…” Greg stopped and then he smiled. “I like the way you talk. I like your suit. Brioni, no?”

The man’s eyes widened. “I-I-I didn’t know that you were fan of fine menswear.”

“I’m a fan of fine men no matter what they wear.” Greg grinned.

The man blushed. He held out his hand. “Shall we?” Greg grabbed it and found himself weightless.

“I’m Greg, by the way.”

“May I call you ‘Gregory?”

“Sure. What do I get to call you?”

“My name is Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes.”

Greg looked at Mycroft and then looked down. “Oh! Are you…?”

Mycroft said with a smirk. “I’m _much_ better.”

As they floated upwards, Greg said, “No offense, Mycroft, but you don’t strike me as the kind of man who’d frequent the Waffle House.”

“None taken. They serve a delightful beverage called Vanilla Coke.”

“Yeah,” said Greg. “It’s like liquid cake.”

“Precisely.”

* * *

“The rain stopped,” said Sally.

“Finally,” said Irene.

“Want to hear a secret?”

“Always.”

“I hate funk music.”

Irene laughed. Then she inhaled sharply and asked in a hushed voice, “Do you like jukeboxes?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Driver! Can you let us off at the next exit?”

“Sure thing, miss.”

* * *

Sherlock tucked the violin and bow under his arm. He bowed and opened his eyes.

_Clap-clap, clap-clap, clap-clap!_

“Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, of course,” said John. “Be careful.”

Sherlock stood at one end of the bathtub, which was anchored to the stage floor by a hulking carcass draped across the other end. A feathered dart jutted out of the beast’s neck.

“Are you okay?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes,” said John. He sat balanced on the pair of inflatable alligators, bobbing up and down in the water some distance from Sherlock.

“Well, you did just shoot an alligator.”

“Well, he wasn’t a very nice alligator.”

“’She,’” said Sherlock.

“How do you know?”

Sherlock lifted a scaly foot with a white band. “Tag says ‘Mrs. Hudson.’”

John laughed.

Sherlock looked around the room. “So…”

“Long story short: hurricane, alligator, evacuation by land and air, hurricane over, lights out for Mrs. Hudson, your brother stopped by—“

“…so my solo was really good?” asked Sherlock. “You liked it?”

John laughed. “Yes, Sherlock, it was phenomenal. I’m sorry that more people didn’t hear it. We should’ve recorded it for the live album.”

Sherlock shrugged. “No matter. I only play for you, John.”

Sherlock smiled.

John smiled.

Then Sherlock looked down at the single black feather than hung from the string around his waist.

“My flamingo moulted, just as you said.”

“Hurricanes will do that. I hope the ones at the zoo fared better. Speaking of which, the zoo folks should be by shortly to pick up our friend.”

Sherlock reached a hand out to John. “In the meantime, we could…”

“No, Sherlock. You’re insatiable. You top any and every roadie on tour. I don’t want to be another notch on your belt. Or bedpost. Or lipstick case. Or whatever you keep your notches on.”

Sherlock growled and rolled his eyes. “Idiot! You are not a notch! After all this time, don’t you see that?! You _are_ the belt, the bedpost, the lipstick case, and everything else, rolled into one. Fucking is fucking, but music…well...music is…love. _And I only play for you_. So, I was wondering if you’d consider,” he waved a hand, “doing a duet?”

He held out the clarinet.

John blinked. “You know that I love you, too.”

“I know. So?”

"We go for cheesy grits afterwards?"

"Of course."

John paddled over to the stage. And they played.

_If you hear any noise_

_It's just me and the boys_

_Hit me, you gotta hit the band._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the unfamiliar, the Waffle House is chain of 24/7 diners in the US, usually along highways. They have jukeboxes and are known for delicious, but artery-clogging, breakfasts. Also, in emergency management circles, they have a reputation for being a sort of gauge as far as the severity of a situation, i.e., they are often the last business to close and first to reopen in times of disasters.
> 
> I've see people post things about highway rest stops being odd places in the universe, and I am painting the Waffle House as that kind of place, where gods take their mortal crushes for first dates.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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